


OVERTALE

by soullessbrothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Horror, M/M, Plot Twists, Undertale AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 12:05:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6005257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soullessbrothers/pseuds/soullessbrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long ago, two races ruled over the Earth: humans and angels. One day, war broke out between those two races. After a long battle, the humans were victorious. They sealed the angels in Heaven with a magic spell.</p><p>Legends say that humans who descend a certain cave never return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	OVERTALE

**Author's Note:**

> Although heavily inspired by UNDERTALE, this is a fantasy/horror story. There will be scenes with explicit violence and sex scenes, as well as spoilers for all routes through the game. You do not need to be familiar with the game or its story to understand this. 
> 
> More tags will be added when they become relevant to avoid spoilers for the story.

The world is made of soft, yellow flowers. Their stems bend instead of snap. He opens his eyes. Where his arms are heavy at his sides, more of the flowers curve, petals spread wide above his face. Orange in the centre, they bleed out to gold, each stamen lazy. When he moves, they don’t push him. If he’d had a headache, it’s lessened to an old throb, a pulse that reminds him that he’s alive.

There aren’t any walls that he can see, but the spotlight on his flowered bed blinds him to anything but a door that waits in shadow. Up on his feet, he palms over his jeans, flattens the black of his shirt and walks towards it.

“Hello?”

If he touches where there should be a wall, he might not feel plaster, stone or rock. Instead, he pushes at the handless door and it opens, silent. One last glance to the flowers and his feet take him further ahead. There’s another spot of light with green beneath it. He might walk over grass, but his boots are thick. He can’t feel a difference, doesn’t know if it’s good or bad.

The closer that he comes to that spotlight, he half expects another to burst from a ceiling that may or may not exist. Instead, at the edge of the light, the ground trembles. It’s weak, a slight tremor, but the grass shifts. A stem grows upwards and carries a golden head with it, the same as the flowers that had watched him as he slept.

“Howdy.”

He flinches. Unlike the others, each stamen is twisted to match a crude face. Two clumps might be eyes, two small, thinner spreads above them could be eyebrows. There’s no nose. When the flower finishes its growth, it’s larger than the others, as tall as his knees, petals enough to make it wider than his thigh. There can’t be a throat, but when it speaks, more stamina move in a parody of lips.

“I’m Flowey,” it continues. “Flowey the flower.”

“I’m—Dean.”

“Huh. You’re new here, aren’tcha? Golly, you must be so confused. Someone ought to teach you how things work around here.”

Dean follows the stamina as they bend around the words. Flowey’s voice squeaks, high and unpleasant, pure Disney knock-off. As Dean steps forward, it cranes its stem to peer up at him. Its petals ripple.

“I guess little old me will have to do.”

There’s a sigh and Dean frowns, left unsure. His own throat is dry. He can’t think when he last ate, last drank water. He remembers his name, how to speak, the names of what he sees, but he doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know how he got there. He doesn’t know.

“Your soul,” Flowey says, “is the very culmination of your being. It starts off weak, but it can grow strong if you gain love.”

“Love?”

“You want some love, don’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll share some with you.”

Dean hesitates, not sure if he’s concussed, not sure what twisted dream he’s fallen into. There’s nothing harmless in a flower, though, so he nods. Flowey’s mangled stamina pull together and there’s another small rumble. Thick balls of pollen free themselves and hang in the air around it.

“Around here, love is shared through little white ‘friendliness pellets.’ Are you ready? Try and catch as many as you can.”

The pellets turn on their own axis to defy gravity. They look more like rice as they twirl, white and inoffensive. Strange. They stop before they’re thrown out. Dean spreads his hands, tries to catch them.

They burn.

Each is vicious, knife-sharp, and cut through his skin. He hisses and retreats, cradles his bloody fingers to his chest, face sliced open as they tear through his flesh and bite, dissolve into his skin. It’s acid. He screams.

“What the hell?”

“You idiot.”

Flowey’s stamina thicken, blacken as Dean watches. Dean stumbles back in fear as Flowey’s stem arches taller, petals even wider. They cast a shadow down and suddenly Dean is small, weak, hurt. He’s a victim and behind him, there are more of the same flowers. Monsters.

“In this world,” Flowey sneers, “it’s kill or be killed. Why would anyone pass up an opportunity like this?”

There’s a rush of air and Dean widens his eyes in horror. More of that pollen bursts from Flowey. Instead of a handful of those daggers, there’s a hundred. They spin until they surround him. He can’t escape. His heart races and Flowey laughs, a mass of shrieks and inhuman wails that shake the space around him.

“Die.”

Dean looks for an opening. Flowey’s laugh sharpens and each round of pollen takes a slow, invisible path closer. Dean turns, takes a step to one side, but they corral him in. If he walks through, they’ll melt his bones. Puncture his lungs. Shred every inch. Closer and closer, Dean shouts, makes nonsensical pleads, but his words are drowned by that laugh.

Until there’s a flash of light.

Flowey’s next shriek isn’t a laugh, it’s pain. Dean covers his eyes to the sting, but when he blinks, Flowey is gone. In its place is a woman. For a moment, Dean thinks that he can see blonde, a white dress, but in the next, her hair is dark, her dress darker than his shirt. With a wave of her hand, each of Dean’s wounds slide closed. His pain disappears. Her mouth is tight.

“What a terrible creature,” she says, “torturing such a poor, innocent youth.”

Dean flinches. After Flowey, he expects her to offer her hand and snap his wrist.

She smiles. “Do not be afraid, my child. I am Amara, caretaker of these ruins.”

“Amara?”

“Yes. I pass through this place every day to see if anyone needs my help. You are the first human to come here in a long time.”

“And you’re not—?”

“Human? Could I be human and heal you?”

“You look human.”

“We look like many things.” She pauses. “Come. Let me guide you through the catacombs. This way.”

Amara looks him over once more before her hands clasp in front of herself. She walks the opposite way, into the darkness. She doesn’t gesture for Dean to follow, but he has no other choice. Behind him are more of those flowers. Even though Flowey is gone, he glances at his healed palms and swallows bile at the memory of that short-lived agony.

Dean hesitates another moment.

“Goddamnit.”

He follows.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are appreciated. This will continue if there's interest.


End file.
